By that deep and solemn river
by vanhunks
Summary: A Janeway story with some reference to J/C. Endgame vignette. Many years after their return to the Alpha Quadrant, Kathryn Janeway lies dying.


solemn ****

By that deep and solemn river

vanhunks

Series: VOY  
Part: 1/1  
Rating: G  
Codes: J, Phoebe Janeway  
  
**Summary**: Many years after their return to the Alpha Quadrant, Kathryn Janeway lies dying. 

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Disclaimer: Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. 

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NOTE: This is a short vignette I just wrote on some inspiration and taking a much needed break from other back-breaking work. I have just watched (for the second time) the 1933 film version of Louisa May Alcott's story "Little Women" and the words from a poem written by Josephine March (Katharine Hepburn) for her sister Beth inspired this vignette. Though I used a line from the poem, there is no further resemblance as I've done something else... 

Yet another (I've read so many!) Endgame story, set many years after they have returned to the Alpha Quadrant. I haven't seen Endgame and relied chiefly on spoilers, so please, do bear with me. 

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BY THAT DEEP AND SOLEMN RIVER

"Phoebe…"

"I'm still here. Here, touch me, feel my hand…"

Kathryn's hand, thin bony fingers seeking in their tiredness the warmth of my own, felt clammy. She was drifting, moving away from me. Eyes that had once been alive, full of zeal and the promise of the morning, looked wan, the light quietly leaving her. 

I thought of deep, quiet waters that flowed gently, marking time in the everlasting realm of truth and beauty where I know Kathryn Janeway will soon unite with those who had gone before her. Loved ones, like Gretchen, Edward Janeway, old Admiral Paris…Tuvok..

"They will come…?"

The words came from her, a soft murmur in which I could hear her longing for two people she once cared so deeply about. She tried to raised herself, her head falling back against the pillow. The movement exhausted her and she closed her eyes, her parted lips only barely moving as I though she might have been praying. She opened her eyes again, the life only fleetingly back in them. Fevered, I thought, as if she could not rest.

She could not rest. Kathryn Janeway had never rested, not since she returned and I watched her through the years being courageous and strong. In the last months I never left her side. A week ago she finally succumbed, her body too tired, too depleted of strength to fight. Yet, I sensed her restlessness and her last, almost pathetic imploring as she asked me to let them come.

"Yes…" 

I sighed, leaned forward to caress her cheek.

"They'll come, Phoebe? Really?"

They had never, since their marriage, been to see Kathryn, or had been in any contact with her. Kathryn had not encouraged it, and, I believed, they had been at pains to hide their happiness. Her pain had been too deep, her courage to accept the inevitable borne out of the pride she had always had. They had been in love, been the greatest of friends, been commanding officers of a vessel in a situation that had become legend. 

Kathryn Janeway had been a legend. 

What she had gone through afterwards, no one could foresee, not even Kathryn Janeway. She had something special with her Chakotay, and, she had given him up for a different dream. It was a dream that had driven her, and like Odysseus she wanted to bring her people home. That had been her primary aim, her obsession she would feed before her own personal happiness. 

Had she known… I give another sigh as I watch her breathe. She is near the end, I know, and if they don't come, she will leave this realm without touching her deep and solemn river.

"Phoebe," she said to me one day, "I always think that a river is so alive, yet so full of character."

"I know what you mean. It seems as if it changes colour even, and becomes dark when it senses your mood."

"No, I think it's what we want to see, Phoebe. Our own mood is reflected in the way the water sounds over broken branches, a gentle sound that speaks of brightness. At other times, when you're feeling lonely or sombre, the sound deepens, as if there's something deep down there that creates an undercurrent. Strange, isn't it?"

I knew what she meant. It's how I sometimes felt looking at her and feeling her deep sorrow touch me. In those moments I knew that she was thinking of him, thoughts perhaps of precious moments shared, or maybe the day she told him that she could not marry him. Or perhaps of their own nights together, before she told him and he had become drawn to another woman. A woman Kathryn Janeway had loved as if she had been her own daughter. Yes, I knew what she meant. On those days the river ran deep, touched by Kathryn's sorrow.

All the more because the last time she had seen them, they were so obviously happy. But Kathryn is Kathryn. She made a decision and lived with its consequences. All she wanted now, was to see them. One last time. Especially him. She wanted to know - I knew how even as one could claim that it wasn't necessary, it was still important, the element of sight and touch - that he was happy, wanted to ascertain that she had been right in letting him go. 

In the end, Kathryn had only me.

"Have you called them, Phoebe? You need to see him too…"

"I have. Please, don't fret so. You're tiring yourself…"

She tried to raise herself from the pillow again and I gently touched her frail shoulders, pressing her back again.

"They'll be here, Phoebe?"

I had sent an emergency message to them. He had assured me they'd be here.

"They will come."

I hoped that my voice sounded full of the assurance that she longed for. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes again. I thought she had fallen asleep again until her lips moved.

"Good. I want him to see you, Phoebe…"

She couldn't know that I had met him years ago. It was a time she had still been too proud, too uncertain that he'd accept me. Should I tell her? She looked so peaceful now, the knowledge that they'd be here very soon, calming her, momentarily lifting her from her sorrow, and her lasting wish that he'd be happy. That I'd be happy.

"He'll like me…"

"I am dying, Phoebe…"

I wanted to tell her that I know. By the deep and solemn river near our home in Indiana, I saw her end. I was filled with deep respect and greater love than I ever had for anyone, and even greater pride that I knew a woman who could let a man she loved deeply go because she knew he'd only be happy with another woman. 

"I am dying, Phoebe…" she gasped again.

"Please…"

"Let him know that you were the best thing that happened to me, Phoebe…"

Her river flowed, dark and deep and solemn. I wanted her to know that I was proud of her, that my love for her and her greatest love for me was to be my only solace. When they came, even if it is too late, that would remain my solace. The knowledge that she loved me deeply, the knowledge that she embraced her end with so much dignity:

"by that deep and solemn river  
where your willing feet now stand..."

"Let him know that, Phoebe…"

"Yes, Mother…"

** 

end


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